Blood of the Tide
by Selethe
Summary: [Post-Gof] Haunted by Ginny and Cedric's deaths, Harry plunges down a rabbit hole of soul magic, political conspiracies & blood-writ pacts. If Voldemort wants a war, Harry's ready to give him one. HP/FD, dark!Harry, good!Ron, competent!adults
1. Day One

**A/N:** This is a rewrite of One Step Forward, which I started back in 2016. The basic premise still stands but there's just… _more_ , in this version.

Canon Divergence = at the end of Chamber of Secrets. Knowledge of canon probably required. Harry/Fleur is rather slow-burn. Voldemort and Dumbledore won't be cackling evil doorknobs. Expect mature themes such as character death, torture, etc. I gave an attempt at some Britishisms, but let me know anything sounds jarringly American.

Thanks to theimmortalhp, The Moon Potato, Zombie, Seyllian, Zircon, and Halt for their betawork/input, and of course to the magnificent Hostiel for his singular edit.

 _Constructive criticism is always appreciated._

-xXx-

 **Chapter 1: Day One**

Uncrinkling Aunt Petunia's shopping list, Harry gave it cursory once-over before wheeling a shopping cart brim with 'organic' and 'low-fat' into the cereal aisle. She must've really been desperate, trusting him with a whole _fifty_ pounds. Rolling his eyes, he lobbed a box of Bran Flakes into the cart; he was only glad that with the Dursleys off to some fancy garden party this afternoon he could watch the news in peace for once. Not that he was expecting much. It seemed everything and everyone was conspiring to keep him in the dark, including his two closest friends: Ron and Hermione.

" _We can't say much about you-know-what, obviously. . . ."_

" _We're quite busy but I can't give you details here. . . ."_

" _There's a fair amount going on, we'll tell you everything when we see you. . . ."_

Harry slowed to a squeaky pause, fingers digging into the handle. What game was Dumbledore playing—sweeping the pair under his wing while leaving him to rot at the Dursleys? Why did the Headmaster even bother with Ron and Hermione? They would just tell Harry everything when they all joined at the Hogwarts Express anyway.

It had to be about timing. Something important must be happening over these summer months which Dumbledore didn't want him knowing about. And maybe Harry's naive friends were being kept hostage to ensure he didn't do anything stupid. No, that didn't seem like the old man's style. But what then?

"Well, look who it is! Back from criminal school, are you?"

Piers Polkiss picked a crisp from the bag he held and tossed it into his open smirk, adding it to the mush chewing around in his mouth. He tongued a chunk from his crooked front teeth, waiting, expecting Harry to startle and whimper and tremble worse than a frightened rabbit at his presence. Harry would've laughed if he weren't scraping at the dregs of his willpower to keep from vaulting over the shopping cart and punching in his smug face.

Grinning a sick-sweet grin, Harry said, "And I noticed you haven't yet graduated from your mum's bowl-cut."

Better judgement said to walk away.

"Least I've got a mum. How'd yours go off the hooks again? Some drunk driving thing, wasn't it? We learned in biology that _loser_ runs in the family. S'called genetics. Do they even teach that in jail?"

Better judgement fell silent.

Harry itched for Piers to take a step closer, just close enough to grab by the neck; splatter brain up the wall. "You're awfully concerned for someone who won't ever breed. Girls don't go for _morons_."

Freckled hands balled to fists. "What did you call me?"

Taped to his calf, his wand warmed in eager preparation for a duel but he wouldn't use it. He wanted to hurt Piers the same way he used to hurt him. "I said you were a moron. Didn't you hear me? Or are your ears as defective as your brain?"

Harry felt himself still, blood cooling, zeroing in on the boy's reaction frame-by-frame. Waiting until the other made the first move—but only just, before he struck.

"Piers!" Dudley rounded the corner with an unopened pack of cigarettes in hand. "There you are—" The fat blond's words died at the sight of them. He grabbed Piers's arm. "Let's go," he urged lowly.

Rending loss swelled in Harry's chest.

This wasn't over. Dudley wouldn't steal this away from him.

Piers seemed a bit taller, broader. "C'mon, Big D! Let me have a go at him, we got to show him who's in charge. Nothing he's learned at that school of his can stand up against us."

"No, but we did learn loads of magic tricks. I can show you some if you'd like," Harry said, knowing it would further upset his cousin. He was past the point of caring.

Keeping whole and hale was meant for other people. He wanted bruised organs, he wanted blood. He wanted to wind up half-dead on a stretcher so Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione would be forced to whisk him away from here. Stick it to them a little. Say, see what they've done to me? Don't you feel bad for leaving me? And then the quieter, hungrier, part of him yearned to shatter Piers's teeth. Pop out Dudley's dim piggy eyes.

"My parents just stuck him there to get rid of him. He's not worth it."

"You beat a ten-year-old into the ground last weekend." Harry's words came harsh and cruel. "Don't tell me you've got a soft spot for the weak and vulnerable."

"Scared? Of you? You wish." He watched Dudley cross and uncross his arms. Even with all that fat clogging his cousin's brain, when it came to Harry Potter, the wizard, it seemed a deviation from the norm—of mild, _docile_ Harry—still managed to send sparking signals of wrong and bad in his head. "If you want a beating so bad, just wait until Mum's party's over. We can even have the funeral right after. Saves us from needing to put on those stuffy clothes again."

Piers laughed.

Harry leaned forward, the cart's handle pressing into his stomach. "Well done, Diddykins. Next time, try saying it without looking like you're about to piss yourself."

Red splotched Dudley's cheeks. Finally, some anger. "Shut it, freak!"

"I could beat you with both my legs tied and you know it. But why don't we have a go at it?" He turned his cheek. "I'll give you the first hit. Free."

 _'...If he didn't have that stick...'_ echoed hollowly in the back of Harry's mind, oil to the water of his own internal voice. In fact, it sounded very much like Dudley, whose face continued to darken.

Adrenaline raced in Harry's veins. He'd get his fight.

"I'll do it," Piers broke in with a brandished fist. "I'll sock him in the—"

Dudley shoved Piers hard into the metal racks. Packaged breakfast items thudded to the floor. "I said he wasn't worth it, didn't I? Come on, we're going!"

Piers gaped. "Dudley!" he cried at the blond's retreating figure, tripping after his leader like a lame duckling, their voices becoming distant down fluorescent morning halls. "Give me a smoke, then."

"Didn't I tell you not to go talking to my cousin?" Dudley growled.

Something popped in Harry's wrist. He looked down and eased the cart's handle from his vice-grip. The way he was feeling had no description. Like something larger than himself was crawling inside his body, tearing around; knowing Piers and Dudley had left from him unharmed ached like a heart attack.

Slowly, horrifyingly, the realization he nearly murdered Piers at a bloody _grocer's_ set in. What was wrong with him? After everything, the thing which completely undid his composure had been none other than that worm. Pathetic.

He paid for the items and went about struggling home in the blistering summer heat with four thin-stretched plastic handles garroting each arm. Nine in the morning had no right to be this hot. Sweat turned his shirt into a wet rag.

There was a small, oppressive eternity between the shop and Privet Drive, where time meant nothing. Much too long later, and paradoxically, before Harry knew it, he collapsed into Number 4's unblemished kitchen, groceries banging to the granite tiles. Renewed circulation pulsed through his veins. He flung the skin-cling shirt from his back and twisted the kitchen sink, sticking his face into the freezing pour. He nearly moaned.

"You! We dress properly in this house!"

Aunt Petunia was already rifling through the plastic bags, a frilly sunhat tilted just so over her forehead. A regular suburban housewife. He darkly wondered how large her bulging eyes would go if a shepherd's crook crept from behind the counter, latched to the pearls fastened about her giraffe neck and yanked her somewhere never be seen again.

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," Harry demurred, twisting off the water. What happened at the grocer's remained forefront in his thoughts—he didn't want to trigger… _that_ , again. When he got angry, he said things he didn't mean, maybe threw a textbook, but this cold, calculating fury was new. It didn't belong in him. Piers was annoying, but Harry's aunt? His uncle? "I'll change right away."

She raised each shiny red apple up for inspection. "Hm," she said, which might as well have been a standing ovation where Harry Potter was concerned. "And pray tell, how will you behave while we are gone?"

"I'll be in my room, waiting for you to come back." Aunt Petunia nodded.

"And if the doorbell rings?

"I'll stay quiet and keep from the windows."

"That's right. You won't step outside this house for anything! Not even if your… peculiarities... fills it with locusts, or floods the attic..." she said, stricken.

"Yes, Auntie."

Plucking a cookbook off the kitchen counter, she dropped it into his unready hands. "Get on a shirt and make what's on page eighty-nine. We're leaving in two hours. I need the dish by then at the very latest."

Balancing the weight, he managed to find the page before Aunt Petunia could leave.

"Squid?" He looked up. "I can't cook squid!"

She looked at him from over her shoulder, painted lips pursed to a raisin intensity. "Then learn how! I hear Carolina Coppersmith is bringing some sort of disgusting liver terrine and Bethany Fontaine has a five-star chef baking her macaroons. I won't be stood up, I just won't! But I only have you. The creature's in the refrigerator. I bought _one_. Do. Not. Mess. Up." Stiletto heel clicks punctuated her departure.

In other words, the task was important but not enough to peel Aunt Petunia from fluffing on more eyeshadow or painting her nails. Did she secretly hope he'd conjure some wonderful, delicious squid dish with magic if left to his own devices?

Harry felt a soft buzz against his thigh—the compact mirror. Withdrawing it, hope, like a hummingbird doing the jitterbug, went knocking around his ribcage, and he dared to wonder if something in his life for once was going according to plan. A pair of dark glaring eyes shrivelled that notion.

"What's got you in a twist?" Harry sighed, hunching over the kitchen counter. The surface was dewy with disinfectant. "Didn't you say we'd only use this for—"

"You heard correctly." Theodore Nott's voice was a scythe through wind. "I have the book you wanted."

Harry paused. This was good news—great news. He offered the Slytherin a winning smile. "Brilliant! Would you mind holding onto—"

"I won't! You neglected to inform me, Potter, that this thing positively reeks to the high heavens with Dark magic! I didn't even have to touch it to know, but I had to, and now I'm… I'm stained. No, I won't keep this… it's 9:21 AM… meet me at Cobb & Webb's at eleven o'clock, or I'll burn this fucking thing to ash."

Nott's image cut, leaving Harry with his own reflection.

Fuck.

He braced his palms on the table, the unclosed little mirror skittering across it. Damn it. After the Chamber incident, Riddle's diary had the weight of a dead thing. Even Dumbledore let it go. But Nott didn't play games. Something must've changed. He needed that diary, he had to go, he owed Ron that much. Aunt Petunia could fry her own damn squid.

But how to get to get to Diagon Alley? Hail the Knight Bus? Harry could almost hear the splintering crunch of his wand being snapped in half.

Time to cash in some good boy points, then.

Yanking on a new shirt, he found Uncle Vernon on the driveway examining his beige company-issued sedan with a fist under his overflowing chin, looking for all the world like he was contemplating the deepest questions the universe had to offer. The suit he wore was solid black, the tie dark blue. A bit... _malapropos_ for a garden party, but what did he know?

"Uncle Vernon, would you mind driving me to Diagon Alley? It's urgent. I'll do extra chores, anything, I've just got to be there right now."

It looked like it hurt, snapping back to reality. "Eh? Boy, what are you doing out here? Nevermind that, over there—" he pointed to one of the back headlights. "See it? Doesn't that look scratched to you?"

Harry didn't see anything. "Er—yeah, it looks a bit off. Say, Uncle Vernon…?"

His whale of an uncle tapped his foot thinkingly against the tarmac.

"Uncle Vernon!"

Uncle Vernon, Uncle Vernon, Uncle Vernon, Uncle Vernon, Uncle Vernon, if he said the name once more his brain-meat would melt to gruel.

The man grunted.

"Could you please drop me off at the Leaky Cauldron?"

Uncle Vernon huffed a laugh. "Drive? Drive you anywhere? Forgotten that we're grounded, have we? You're not going anywhere, let alone some… some crackpot hangout! Get back in the house."

Harry's thoughts short-circuited. "But..."

"No!"

"I've—I've done all my chores—"

"Go! Go on! I won't hear anymore of it." The man shooed him towards the house. Harry lingered on the porch, half in disbelief. Grounded? He'd been the perfect nephew since Dobby magicked a cake on Mr. Mason's head! Uncle Vernon shot him a dirty look and plodded up the driveway, the car scrutinizing mood evidently ruined.

His nails bit into the heels of his palms, hellish impulse waxing in his veins. The frosty rage from earlier resurfaced. For far too long he let them push him around like a noxious pest. That was it. If they were going to treat him like old Harry then he might as well act like old Harry.

Before the man crossed the steel threshold (and being as fat as he was, that meant it took quite some time), Harry had gone upstairs, grabbed a pair of robes, shoved his summer homework under his bed, snatched the keys off the counter and weaved around his uncle.

"BOY!"

The car door thumped shut behind him, locks clacking into place. The interior was a matte black oven that smelt of sun-glare. Harry had driven before. Sort of. If a few minutes with Mr. Weasley's Ford Anglia counted. Wasting no more time, he purred the car to life.

Large fists pounded desperately at the sedan as Harry switched gears. "BOY!"

He clicked in his seat belt and slammed down the accelerator. Bellowing forward with a throaty gargle, the car shot past Uncle Vernon and crashed into the garage door. "Shit." Harry set the sedan into reverse and crawled the car back till it met street.

Dudley and Piers watched from the pavement, mouths agape.

"YOU GET BACK HERE AT ONCE!" Uncle Vernon roared after him. "STOP! STOP! DON'T YOU DRIVE OFF! STOP THIS! PETUNIA, CALL THE POLICE!"

Cracking down the window a sliver, he batted the compulsion to run his uncle over and instead settled for a few hissed words:

"I really do hope you have fun at the party."

Tires squealing against tarmac, he gained control of the vehicle just shy of it scraping against their neighbor's vintage porsche. An impish grin curled ear-to-ear. It felt a bit like flying, going this fast.

What were the Dursleys to do? They had only one car.

-xXx-

Police sirens echoed in Harry's ears as he swerved the car to a stop in front of the Leaky Cauldron, heart jackhammering in his chest. Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Grabbing his things, Harry flung open the sedan door—the metal slab unhinging with a creak and clattering loudly to the ground, drawing the attention of nearby Muggles—and vaulted out.

Glass bells rang when he burst through the Inn door.

The place was in mayhem. Tom the Bartender was shaking frogs from the pockets of a homeless boy, decanters dancing above them like seance candles. It was full of people, most brightly-robed, some with animal masks, a few drunkenly yelling out a party song; one stood on a table in priestly garments, a wand in each hand, flapping his arms like wings. It was loud as sin in here.

Realization struck him; today was Midsummer.

An old-timey holiday to Muggles who sometimes parlayed it as an excuse for _garden parties_ , but to wizards it remained the biggest holiday of the year. And he'd just stumbled right on in. His lip curled. Nott could've reminded him.

Discreetly, Harry donned his plain black school robes and cast a disillusionment charm over himself, the feeling of magic like a raw egg cracking down his head. He checked his watch: 10:50 AM. Ten minutes. It wasn't much, but he didn't need much.

The Inn's back wall unstitched to reveal the official Midsummer Parade. Harry had never seen Diagon Alley so packed. Stark white robes flashed in his peripheral – an Auror. Damn. They brought Aurors out for this? He dived deeper into the fray, the momentum of the crush-press crowd jostling him forward faster than he could keep steady, apologies like a mantra on his tongue as he was shoved and stepped on.

There came a great peal of trumpets from somewhere beyond. Paper dragons rushed overhead, roaring the sky into a salvo of a thousand colors and a witch screamed excitedly into his face. Harry could feel his disillusionment charm fraying. No surprise. He'd hardly mastered the spell.

"Potions!" A hag wearing a sleep mask and her wheelbarrow were carving a path through the crowd. "Turn yer gnomes to newts! One sickle per bottle!"

Cobb & Webb's was a gloomy blight amongst the whimsical, spectacular shops of Diagon Alley which flaunted all manner of eye-catching widgets, bright signs, and interesting artifacts at their windows. Nott's chosen establishment resembled a giant decaying pumpkin coated in black resin and its one comely feature, a gilded door, helped its appearance as a much as a gold tooth did a pirate's. The store was ugly and Harry got the distinct sense it knew it.

He made his way there, producing the mirror from his pocket as he did. Flicking it open—nothing. Checked his watch: 10:58 AM. Nott better show.

Harry glanced up. And blinked.

The shop… was gone. Talbot's Broomsticks seamlessly met Magex Inc. without any trace of rotten gloom between them. 10:59 AM. Where did it go?!

Harry yelped when the hag's wheelbarrow rammed into his side. Fermented onion-stink burned the layer of mucosa off his eyes.

"Sorry, lad." Peeling up the sleep mask, her rheumy gaze shot to his forehead, mouth yawning into a blackened grin. "'Arry Potter! What an honor! What say you—buy a poor lady's wares? It'd be nothing to you after winning tha' Tournament and all." She said this as if it were an inside joke between them.

He brushed his fringe over his scar before fishing a few coins out of his pocket and slapping them onto her leathery palm. "Please. Where I can find Cobb & Webb's?" Nearby yelling drowned his question. It was two wizards. One burly and drunk; the other spindly and entirely bereft of a mouth.

"Whaa?" she asked.

Harry faltered back. Burly careened forward, shoving the hag aside. "How dare you? Samhain is for dead people, get your holidays right! Put your mouth back on and drink!"

A black sphere rolled out of Spindly's sleeve and into his palm. On instinct, Harry ducked—it arched over him, blue staccato bursting away with Burly's lips. Giving a muted hiss, the drunk charged after Spindly—the hag tripped him with her wheelbarrow.

"Cobb & Webb's," Harry repeated louder while straightening from his crouch. The two wizards had run out of sight. "Do you know where I can find it?"

She cocked her hip. "Tha' old Dark Arts shop?"

"Yes! Yes, that one. Where is it?"

"If you want some real Dark Arts curios, you're better off at Moribund's. Eh?" Watery eyeballs measured him for a moment longer before rolling upwards. "Oh, you Hogwarts kids don't know any real meaning o' fun, do ya? Everyone should have a few snapping moppets in my opinion. CW's a shy shop, tha' one. Shyer when it gets near to the hour. Take the first left at the Kisser and you'll find it."

She appraised one of the coins he'd given her. Grunting in satisfaction, she unhinged her jaw and slow swallowed the four glinting pieces down whole. They clinked hitting her stomach floor. Offering a final wink, she pulled the night mask back over her eyes and set off.

"...Thank you." Harry shook his head and he drew his robes tighter about him, crossing into a back-alley. Journeying to the Kiss, the area where Diagon met Knockturn, head-on was a death sentence—it would be the most chaotic section of the parade, where he'd find the overambitious sequel to the story of Burly and Spindly. The store could act as coy as it wanted. He knew a few short-cuts.

Feeling the mirror thrum, he unlatched it and was rewarded with an eyeful of Nott's pores. Carefully stepping over a red slug the size of a cat, he bit back the acidic things he wanted to say to him.

"Where are you?" his classmate whispered. "You're never late."

Harry exhaled. "The bloody shop moved on me, that's what. You could've—"

"That's your own fault." Nott held a thin, black-crusted book to the mirror. Harry's eyes widened. Riddle's diary. He had actually done it. "If you're not here in fifteen minutes, I'm leaving. I'll do a lot for you, Potter, but not if it gets me thrown into Azkaban."

He could get there in five.

"Just sit tight. I'm—"

 _Fuck._

—gut reeling, he managed to keep from splattering his skull across the ground. Of course it would be a copy of the Daily Prophet that nearly did him in. Tripping, what a way to die. A portly wizard on the front page mouthed 'sorry', the headline's aggressive typeface staring a hole into Harry.

"Potter?"

"Mockridge," he said. "Did you know he died?"

Harry hadn't a chance to get today's paper. The poor delivery owl must be quite miffed with him—he should give it some of the old owl treats he still had next time.

"Who the hell is Mockridge?"

Nott would know if he ever came to History class. "He's the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. Binns is in love with him. Mockridge this, Mockridge that. They've even got the same first name."

"Cuthbert? How terrible. It's nearly as bad as Harry." On Nott's round, cherubic face, his smirk gave him the appearance of child who'd successfully secreted away a chocolate or two from his mother. Suddenly, his eyes shifted to the corner. "Bye," Nott hissed, closing his mirror.

Harry's eyes widened as the grooves and juts of information aligned in his head. A month ago a former Minister of Magic had passed, then a renowned potioneer, a big-name social advocate, and a wealthy merchant. Now Mockridge. Dead, all of them, by natural causes. But that was quite a lot of deaths in such a short period of time considering wizards didn't die quickly nor easily. This was the way Voldemort's first war had started. Influentials withering off one by one.

If he could see it, why couldn't anyone else? He hadn't even been alive during the beginning of the first war. It would've been funny, how hard the Wizarding World was trying to bury the Voldemort situation. If only people weren't—er— _dying_.

By habit, he checked his watch. The appearance of Borgin & Burke's announced he'd exited out to the left of the Kiss, so he walked straight, turned, and lo and behold stood the ugly visage of Cobb & Webb's.

It wasn't as busy around these parts. Actually, the street was barren.

Harry paused, feeling a heavy, ominous presence behind him. It couldn't be Nott. An Auror? With the diary so close this was the worse possible moment for a confrontation. If they saw it, Fudge would have the final nail to lock him up forever. Harry reached for his wand but hesitated when fingers met wood. Firing spells at an Auror would certainly see him in Azkaban—or worse.

Why was it when things were destined to go wrong, they went really, really wrong?

"'Arry!" a voice sang into his ear.

A terse grin split his lips as he swallowed down hair-trigger impulse.

Everything fell away until only she remained.

Somehow, he'd forgotten how beautiful Fleur was. Like a hazy, ethereal vision from a fever dream drawn to explicit detail, no artistry lost along the way. Tall, a bit taller than him, with delicate strength, cornflower blue eyes, and hair the color of sunlight on water, gently spilling past her ribs; hair which danced softly by a wind that wasn't there. Or perhaps it was? He couldn't quite tell; the Alley was starting to feel strangely airless.

"F-Fleur," he stammered, nerves pitching at her broadening, perfect smile. Great job, Potter, he told himself scathingly. "What are you doing here?"

He ignored Nott within the shop. There were a few minutes left, the Slytherin could wait. Besides, this might be Harry's last time ever seeing Fleur. Their paths weren't prone to crossing.

She embraced him, so close he caught the orange blossom perfume on her elegant neck. "Surprising you, no?" He managed, somehow, to force his arms to work and hug her back, face burning hotter with each passing second. Releasing him, she cupped his jaw and pressed warm kisses to his cheeks.

He wondered if girls found the slack-jawed idiot look attractive.

"I could not resist, you appeared so enraptured," she teased—her accent was less pronounced than he remembered it. "It is not so often I get small pleasures like zis."

Harry swallowed thickly. "I—I mean, here, in Dia- Knockturn Alley."

Stupid. The parade—everyone was here for the parade.

Fleur refined the imperious cant of her head, eyes half-lidded with conceit. "I am on my way to Gringotts, of course. I work there for zis summer, as you must be aware."

He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. She sometimes caricatured herself for a laugh... which she did rather too well. At least he hoped she was joking. "I don't know much of anything, really. My uncle turns this unhealthy shade of purple anytime he spots an owl, and I hear housing prices are rising, so I'd rather not have to find somewhere else to live."

"Muggles?" Fleur's said with intrigue. "You come live with moi, I won't even tattle on you to your silly Ministry if I see you use magic." The disillusionment charm cloaking him now came to sharp attention. "Zat is, if you do not mind Aliénor and Vivien, my housemates. Zey enjoy baccarat and screaming at each other—oh, and throwing things. What flies faster do you think—a bird, or a lamp?"

"I'm a quidditch champion," he said with careless ego. "A lamp is nothing to bludgers." Pride soured to impending doom, his words catching up with him. Where was all his sang-froid when he needed it?

Instead of sneering at him she cocked her head and let out a small silver bell giggle. A stupid grin sprouted on his face like some kind of poisonous fungus, one he was painfully aware of and one he could not scrape off his mouth.

What was wrong with him? No girl had affected him like this before. Not Parvati, not Cho, and certainly not Fleur or any of the veelas at the Quidditch World Cup last year. It might've been frightening but Fleur was so pretty, her attention so rapt, the sentiment evaporated before he could grasp it.

"Unfortunately, ze French cannot be quelled so easily. Forget quidditch, what zey do not even _my_ charms can 'elp!"

He found himself laughing, feeling lighter and more bubbly than he could ever remember feeling. Like the dark cloud over his head, the pressure, the memories, had taken wing and flown away.

A stray glance to an annoyed Nott summoned a rush of reality that hung wiry and tough in his throat. "Listen, I've got to—"

"Wait, please, 'Arry." Her stance, her face, her voice, said _vulnerable_ , and of course he stopped—he'd have to have the heart of an inferi to ignore her. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

She exhaled bracingly. "How well do you know ze Weasleys?"

His existence narrowed to a needle-point. He wondered if she knew.

"Ron's my best friend."

She paused. "What do you think of Bill?"

He gave her an oblique look. Beneath the surface, his gut stirred with some undefinable and not very pretty emotion as half-thoughts began connecting in the murkiest reaches of his mind.

"He's a good man."

Fleur nodded. "Zat is w—"

Ropes materialized from thin air and snapped Fleur within a deadly cocoon, the beginnings of her scream ringing along the Alley's sides. Harry's mind went blank. Fingers fumbled to release his wand, he managed a spell, maybe it was the disarming spell, and he heard a crashing thump—what just happened?

"Well done," came a drawling baritone. Harry whipped around. Reality rippled in a spot, and a man's head was revealed. Dark over-the-shoulder ponytail, angular cheekbones, and a dimple at each end of his smile. "But that's to be expected. I think I'll be more of a challenge."

The hair on Harry's neck raised at the singe in the air. Throwing up an arm, a weighty yellow bolt ricocheted off his hastily conjured shield just centimeters shy of his face. Dispelling his shield, Harry shot a silent severing hex after it, hoping the man would miss it while occupied with the rebounding bolt.

The cobblestone beneath Harry sank and clamped around him like a thick coffin. "Oh hoh, look at you," the man said, having cancelled both spells in one swooping gesture. "Reflectivity. Quite a rare slant for the shield charm to take. Maybe some of the admiration you've garnered is warranted." The earth closed its gaps and transformed into a tornado of winding rope, his world twisting dark and constricting. Head meeting ground—vision dancing with bright spots—

There came the waterfall-rush sound of the reviving spell.

A groan. "The Dark Lord w-will be pleased, won't he, Selwyn?"

"Quiet, you mewling lubberwort. Grab the veela. Macnair's birthday's coming up soon, isn't it?"

-xXx-

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. The next 7 chapters (30k+) should be out reasonably quickly as they are, for the most part, already written. If you have the time, please leave any questions/comments in a review :) I respond back.

Obligatory reminder to protest FOR Network Neutrality.


	2. Arisen I

**A/N:** This chapter has a fair bit of introspection. The next ones should be more bumpin'

Thanks to theimmortalhp, Zombie, Halt, Jolly Rancher, Seyllian, Smutley Do-Wrong, and The Moon Potato for their betawork/input on this chapter. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

 **-xXx-**

 **Chapter 2: Arisen I**

The apparition _hurt_.

His chest—had a troll stomped through his ribs? He kept his breathing short, iron crawling down his tongue, each breath dragging it down, down...

Consciousness struck him, head spinning. He was slung over Selwyn's broad shoulder like a sack of old potatoes, insides feeling oozy and rank enough to climb out his gut. Rope tied his limbs together. Blinded his eyes.

He cried out in frustration; sound didn't come.

With an effort, he slowed his breathing and focused on the senses available to him. Fresh wind indicated civilization was distant, and there was salt, but that could've been his blood. Two pairs of feet rustled through short grass, birds squawked in the distance—seabirds.

There was a sudden shift from summer warmth to ice, a sinus-buzzing and clinical sense of cold.

His body hit the ground shoulder-first.

Bindings tightened, crushing him. Sound like a dial tone began in his ears. He felt more than heard another body crash beside him and then the ropes flaked into nonexistence, freeing his face, his lungs filling so fast he choked.

Utter blackness.

He couldn't see. They'd taken his eyes. Voldemort—was this it? Fear nestled heavy in the pith of his throat. His eyelids fluttered against the dark and his awareness plunged, dead tone on crescendo, cool press of stone against his cheek vanishing, the magic veining the floor beneath constricting, flow building—

His vision adjusted. The ringing drained until it rested at calm silence, that moment of preternatural power slipping along with it. Darkness, that was all it had been. He still had eyes, hell, he even had his glasses.

With care, he forced his body to sit upright, flesh and bone heavy as anvils. Nausea swelled.

They were in a cell, that much was obvious. Purple lighting faintly suffused throughout the dungeon, bringing the shadowy forms of three figures into relief. When the pregnant woman might've joined them, he couldn't say. Their postures, their calm faces, spoke of this whole process being old hat; a method already forged out of its flaws.

Their cell could've been a small guest room in a medieval castle. Cozy, but still a cell. On the fur-laden cot sat a young girl staring at her hands, dark hair veiling her face. There was a table, a wooden bookcase, a green banner emblazoned with a family crest—

He exhaled. This was Selwyn's dungeon. Voldemort was nowhere in sight.

Lingering in the air was something that ran his nerves raw. It sang in duet with the sub-zero chill. He drew his robes tightly about himself.

" _Finite_ ," Selwyn said, gaze covetously fixed to Harry's face as the silencing charm dropped. Intellectually, Harry understood it was an intimidation tactic, but there was a feeling about the man that unnerved him on a deeper level. His hand opened and closed, grasping for a wand that wasn't there.

Harry reared forward, intending to stand, but Fleur pulled him back.

"You've made a big mistake," Harry seethed at the trio looking down at them through the bars. Fleur shushed him through her teeth.

Selwyn's pearly smile would've been endearing on anyone else. "Have I? I think capturing you was one of my smarter moves. I barely had to use my wand." He twirled the slim red wood between his fingers and pocketed it in one smooth movement. "You know what else I think? It's said starving dogs bite unfamiliar hands, so perhaps some introductions are in order. I would like us to be friendly."

Fleur cut off Harry's retort. "Everybody thinks zey are smart—until zey are dead!" she said. "Our families will come for us!"

Harry masked his surprise.

"She's a biter, I can tell," Selwyn said, eyes lighting up like a child's on Christmas Eve. "I'll have to warn Macnair. He'll love it."

"Why would we ever be friends with you?" Harry asked.

"You'll remember I said _friendly_." The edges of the man's eyes crinkled. "You see, no matter how any one of us behaves, the two of you are set for unfortunate endings. Now, that's not me being mean, it's just a fact. So, I say, why not be pleasant with each other? It makes the experience much less stressful for everyone involved. Marcus, would you do the honors and introduce us?"

Half-hidden behind the woman was a shorter man whose cheeks were ruddy, presumably from the journey. "I-Isidore Selwyn," he said, gesturing while keeping his eyes peeled to the floor. "And my sister—"

"—Half," the woman said.

"My half-sister, Altheia."

Selwyn patted a shying Marcus on the shoulder. "Well done."

"Thank you." Fleur haughtily glared up at Marcus. "My retribution will be easier to take, knowing their names."

Selwyn made a sound of exasperation and nudged his wife. "I prefer—"

"Stop it, Isa." The woman placed a hand over her swollen belly. The rings guarding her fingers sparkled in malicious tandem. "So, this the Boy-Who-Lived? He's not very impressive."

Neither was she, but Harry bit his tongue.

Altheia was severe rather than beautiful, and very golden. Ringlets fell to the small of her back like a rush of galleons and her robes were cloth-of-gold. But Harry imagined her perfectly comfortable garbed in a nun's habit, eagle-sharp eyes scouring for naughty kids to lob chalk at.

His breath began to mist in front of his face. He didn't cross his arms. He wouldn't give Altheia the satisfaction of seeing him uncomfortable.

"How did you know I was in Diagon Alley?" Harry asked roughly.

Selwyn and Marcus were wearing plain black robes in pristine condition. They must've apparated into a back alley and then apparated with Harry and Fleur back out. No spells could've kept them safe from the deluge of magical smoke, paint, and glittery fairy dust plaguing the parade.

A wave of despair nearly bowled him over. No. Oh no, _no_ —

Selwyn's forced expression cemented Harry's suspicion. He'd felt something earlier when they first came in but it had been too dark to see. One of the cells, he now noticed, wasn't a cell at all. Cells didn't move, didn't wear tatty cloaks, and didn't breathe like Mordred himself was squeezing their windpipes like tubes of toothpaste.

"Despicable," Fleur whispered.

Selwyn deserved a standing ovation—he'd successfully recreated Hell.

Harry hopped to his feet, shrugging off the negative energy. As a third year, he'd faced a hundred dementors. This was laughable.

"Yes, my love." Selwyn said. "And Potter—"

"Please, call me Harry." His grin was all teeth.

Selwyn took a half-step closer. "We were simply in the right place at the right time. You can hide your scar, but everybody knows your face." Harry's brows drew together. "As an aside, neither of you will address my wife directly. Conversing with half-breeds and mudbloods dirties her tongue."

" _Zat_ ," Fleur said, "is no terrible loss."

The woman stabbed at Fleur with her wand, a blinding blue flashed—

—Fleur gasped, eyes rolling back into her skull. Her head thumped against the floor, body shuddering, convulsing like her veins had been transfigured into rushing live wires.

Harry's fists tightened and white-hot pumped in his chest, his breath growing heavy. He couldn't look at her. He would do something stupid—

The table went smashing into the metal bars with the ferocity of a giant throwing a baseball. Harry scurried back, silverware raining around him—he thought for moment it had been a burst of Fleur's magic, but he looked to the girl on the cot, to her bloodless clenched fists.

Fleur curled on her side, facing the wall.

Selwyn plucked the wand from the snarling woman's fingers and swished the furniture upright before sticking it back in her grasp. She gave her husband a crisp look.

"Shall… shall I alert the Dark Lord that we have Potter?" Marcus asked, brushing his sleeve up to reveal the black tattoo of a serpent curling out of a skull.

Selwyn rolled his eyes. He pushed up his own sleeve to bear pale, unblemished forearm. "Do you see that mark on my skin? I have no obligation to tell him anything. Neither will you, not if you don't want to end up in a cell." Selwyn punctuated each statement with a prod to the man's chest, each tap coming harder than the last until Harry knew there was no chance Selwyn wasn't leaving bruises. "I will handle everything. Do not interfere."

"If you want money, I've got a vault full of it," Harry said. "You can have it."

Marcus glanced at Harry. "But—"

"—Be silent, you're giving me a headache," Altheia snapped, pressing the tips of her fingers to her temples and clickity-clacking away.

"That's a kind offer, but I'll have to decline," Selwyn said, attention lingering on Fleur, before he left with a snap of his robes. Marcus trailed after him, staring at his feet.

A barrier of magical silence fell in front of Harry. No longer could he hear the dementor.

"You okay?" he asked Fleur, who was shuddering for breath.

Ignoring him, she repositioned herself against the wall and pointed her chin at the silent brunette girl on the cot. "You! Who are you?"

The girl couldn't have been more than eight or nine. At her continued silence, Fleur leveraged the wall against her back and got to her feet.

"Don't. You need to rest." Harry steadied her stumbling first steps—and nearly jerked back. Intense heat radiated from her body. Was the hex still in effect?

"Non. Escort me to ze bed, please," Fleur replied as she threw her arm over the breadth of his shoulders, sagging onto him. His muscles, still aching from having carried home groceries that morning, strained. She was heavier than she looked.

At some point one cot had multiplied into three, each bedecked in sheaves of animal pelts. He lugged her to a seated position on the cot beside the girl's. Fleur wouldn't have it. She maneuvered to sit next to her. The kid shied away but Fleur clutched her jaw in sudden recognition, forcing her eyes up.

"Mon dieu. Valentina? Valentina Goretti?"

The girl nodded weakly, burying her face in a tangle of arms and knees.

A sob broke from Fleur's throat. She tenderly wrapped herself around Valentina, pulling her close when the ashen girl gave no resistance, brushing aside overgrown fringe to better see her. Fleur's features briefly twisted in distress. With the heel of her palm, Fleur wiped a tear from her own flushed cheek.

Fleur smiled at him but her words came out strangled. "I've found her. We 'ave Valentina." She cradled the girl against her, kissing the top of her head. "Brave Valentina. Is this where you've been? Do not worry, I will return you to your mama and papa. They 'ave been so worried. They love you so much, Valentina."

She rubbed the lengths of the girl's arms. "'Arry, she is so cold." Valentina's robes, stylish summer couture, were thin and not exactly fit for a stay in someone's dungeon.

More unwilling than he'd ever admit, Harry shuffled off his robes, which at some point had been spattered with yellow paint. The chill bit deeper into him. "Here." Left in Dudley's cast-offs, he tossed Fleur the article of clothing and wrapped himself in what seemed like a wolf pelt. It didn't really help. "They're charmed to be comfortable in any temperature, but I've got no idea how they'll hold up against a dementor."

Fleur draped it across Valentina's shoulders shawl-style—the compact mirror fell from a pocket and clattered to the floor. Harry quickly retrieved it. The girl clutched the robes tightly. Thick sloped brows gave her a perpetually sad look.

Without Selwyn, Altheia, and Marcus hogging the spotlight, he found himself inspecting the greater dungeon area. The structure was circular and entirely made of stone, a sconce of purple fire hanging above each of the twelve cells. Magical fire only turned that color when it itself felt cold. As the flames danced a certain way, unmoving silhouettes were unveiled but for a moment—most Hogwarts-aged kids, if he had to guess by their statures.

"She is ze daughter of the Undersecretary to the Italian Minister of Magic. She has been missing for a _month_ ," Fleur said.

"A month?" Harry whispered. He cleared his throat. How long would it take before Selwyn handed him off to Voldemort? Or Fleur to Macnair? "What do you think for? Ransom?"

"Perhaps. It could be for insurance. To make ze Undersecretary do as our _hosts_ please."

He opened the compact with a soft click, expecting to see his own reflection. Instead, the glass shone bright green. It must've broken during the apparition. Harry's voice was steel. "We're getting out of here and we're taking everyone with us. I'm not leaving anyone behind."

Fleur gave him a curt nod.

 **-xXx-**

With a moment to himself, Harry couldn't help but mull over the day's events. It started with Aunt Petunia waking him at the first blush of dawn, had a dollop of grand theft auto, and ended with getting kidnapped by Selwyn who while wasn't a Death Eater himself, made it abundantly clear Voldemort was going to be involved somehow.

He was trapped in a maelstrom of crises, one after the other, no space between them to breathe, and to top it off he felt off-kilter. He suspected that back in Knockturn Alley, Fleur used some veela voodoo on him, which would explain why, when Marcus attacked them, Harry's reactions were clamoring rather than sharp. Why he laughed at her terrible jokes.

But he couldn't explain why she'd done it—he had nothing she couldn't have gotten from him willingly, and nor did he believe she… well, _wanted_ him. Her eyes were on Bill Weasley.

Despite it all, his thoughts were plagued by her. As she slept, his eyes were drawn to the contours of her face, the angular jaw, the dark gold eyelashes casting shadows down her cheekbones. Other times, he'd go to check if she was still breathing like a damned mother hen. He wasn't a worrier by nature. He couldn't unscramble if this was natural or not—if other guys did this around girls they liked, or if it was induced by her veela heritage. Maybe it was all just one tangled knot.

He supposed being locked in with Fleur would solve that mystery soon enough.

Thoughtlessly, his fingertips grazed over his left forearm, at the tough, braided flesh there where the basilisk had driven her fang into him.

Running on jittery fumes, he couldn't help but think, think, think.

Had Nott destroyed the diary like he'd threatened? Surely getting abducted within plain view warranted an extension on Harry's time limit.

Did Nott tell anyone what happened? He doubted it. His friend's defining characteristic was stereotypically Slytherin: self-preservation. Nott's family was Pureblood stock, capital 'P', with a lineage that more resembled the wiring of a tennis racket than a tree. Hell, the last thing Nott's mother said to her son while boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time was, "I'll skin you if I hear you've been talking to that Harry Potter boy."

And Nott never let him forget it.

The thought of Theodore Nott rapping on Dumbledore's door was silly enough to chase some of the cold from Harry flesh. He imagined his classmate staring disgustedly at the butterflies winging across the Headmaster's robes, promptly deciding then and there that saving him wasn't worth subjecting his eyes to _that_. Nott had his uses, but this situation was beyond him.

It was up to Harry and Fleur to get—no, it was up to _him_.

Lost in thought, he'd forgotten why he was waiting until Fleur fell asleep in the first place. Harry breathed out, kicking off his place at the wall. He wasn't one to welsh on a promise but they hadn't exactly shaked over it; she simply made a demand and expected him to obey.

That wasn't how things worked with him.

They needed information. Now. How long until Selwyn delivered them both on a silver platter? A month? Tomorrow? Valentina seemed perfectly normal to him—well, not _normal_ , she was staring blankly—content enough to map foggy whorls onto a plate with her finger. Maybe she was a glass doll, barely holding it together, nonetheless, Harry wouldn't break her.

He knelt beside the Italian girl. Keeping his voice whisper-soft, "Valen—"

"'Arry!" Fleur snapped, twisting to glare at him. Still awake, then. Even upset, she was unbearably beautiful.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to snidely tell her 'keep it together, I wasn't doing anything,' but didn't have the heart, because he had indeed been about to do something. Sighing, he said, "Go back to sleep, Fleur."

She looked at him inscrutably before her head plummeted back down. It wasn't Valentina, but Fleur, who needed a break. Well-deserved, but he didn't need her by his side just to ask Valentina a few questions.

He was torn.

As much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, if relationships were vast oceans, his friendship with Fleur was the painting of one; the water appeared real, but it didn't smell of salt, couldn't carry a boat, wouldn't kill on a bad day. Had they even had a true conversation before? Going over Fleur's head would turn her against him, something he really didn't need.

So, he busied himself with other activities.

The next hour saw Harry poking, prodding, lifting, and stomping. One thing was abundantly clear: their cell was _pristine_. Not a dust speck to be seen, not on the fur pelts, not on the silver dining set, not over here, not over there, not anywhere. No loose stones in the masonry, no convenient crawl-sized vent behind the twining mermaids of the Selwyn banner. Nothing.

Literature in the bookcase fell into one of three categories: useless, very useless, and infuriatingly useless, so unless reciting old Phoenician poetry had the power to summon a mythical beast of yore, they were out of luck.

Harry rubbed at his lightning bolt scar while he paced. Rubber soles scuffed against stone, oddly muted. Thirst scrabbled in his throat. He bypassed a daydreaming Valentina to snatch a goblet off the table, icy metal nipping his fingers. He thumbed foggy condensation from the motif ribboning the cup, little bumps like braille under his finger—pegasi foals charging and gliding over each other in a happy game of leapfrog. He wondered, at the beginning, for how long they'd kept Valentina preoccupied.

A sip later, as he watched the water rise back to its original level, he resumed treading foot.

 **-xXx-**

Harry slumped to the ground, skull lolling against numbingly cold stone. His leg muscles burned unpleasantly, carrying a sick, tired weight, urging him to sit and rest, to sleep, to lay down and never get back up.

It was a nasty wonder, the power of a dementor.

"What's Azkaban like?" Harry had once asked of Sirius as he shoveled pub food into his mouth. Hagrid's non-explanation of it being 'far worse than anything yeh could e'er imagine' had just deepened his curiosity.

He wasn't worried about offending Sirius. If his godfather wasn't comfortable he'd tell Harry to shove off.

"It's not so bad," Sirius said in a scratchy voice.

Harry's furrowed his brows. Grey eyes shone with mirth.

"You know how dementors behave since you've fought off a few before—which I still can't believe. A patronus at what? Thirteen? James definitely couldn't do that." Sirius took a sip of his drink. His next words came a bit crisper. "My life's been no party but I can handle it being spit back in my face. What I couldn't deal with..."

Sirius shook his head. "I spent thirteen years in that forsaken place and I can't remember most of it. Feels like one long, bad dream. When I saw that copy of the Prophet, when I saw Peter, I was so furious that I just… I just woke up! The oddest feeling. Dementors swarmed me for days. Tried to suck out my consciousness like it was some tasty drink. Of course, by then I knew I had to get out no matter what."

"Why didn't you try to escape before? When you were first put in?" Harry hedged, hoping Sirius didn't catch the underlying question: 'Why didn't you get me from the Dursleys?'

His godfather had scratched at his knuckles then. "Wasn't skinny enough. More tea?"

A deathly chill brushed over Harry. He resisted the urge to swipe a fur from Fleur's hoard. Cold was good. The dementor was a good thing. Fear, dread, it all helped; he was at his best under duress. This way he'd never get complacent.

Wandless magic was beyond his skills, but there was, well, his half-baked animagus form. At the end of his third year, he'd started the journey, practicing _gramarie,_ the art of soul manipulation, night and day to properly bond the ghost animal with his own soul. But he'd been experiencing difficulties.

The stupid mongoose did _not_ want to merge with him.

After his last wrangle with the ghost a few weeks ago, compounded with Sirius being unhelpful in his letters, Harry quit. He had fully intended to let the creature live in a perpetual half-merged mesh until he died, but beggars couldn't be choosers. If anything could plausibly squeeze between those bars it was a mongoose.

Harry stared at the goblet, brilliant green irides glittering back at him. His heart lodged in his larynx. It was dangerous but—

—he concentrated, bringing up that thing that rested in his soul. It eagerly clawed up his throat and stuffed its head into Harry's. In the reflection, pupils flattened and brilliant green blinked orange.

A slow yawning, stitches pulling undone, started in his core. Harry blanched and tamped the creature back down. It rabbled and squirmed, fighting, but quick fear lent Harry the strength to shove it home.

Why couldn't it just behave? If only animal souls could affect their hosts beyond affording them a keener sense of smell or hair in unwanted places—then he could blame it for his sudden personality shift too. Neat and tidy. All his problems in one place.

His breath fogged over a flash of tattered black on the cup's surface. Goosebumps ran down his arms. Goblet burned frozen cold in his grasp. The dementor aimlessly wandered closer, its scabbed grey hand extended forlornly; Harry gripped the cup tighter, ready to throw it if the hand tried to breach the bars.

Bloody hell. Where did Selwyn get a dementor? Didn't Azkaban have a roster for the damn things?

More discomfiting than its appearance was its missing death rattle, deafened as Harry was to what laid beyond their cell.

 _"Kill the spare."_

 _Green light exploded. In the sodden grass, grey eyes stared as blank and expressionless as windows of a deserted house. Cedric's mouth laid half-open in surprise. A high, cold laugh rang through rows of gravestone._

 _His scar seared._

"Go on," Harry hissed. "Shoo!"

"'Arry?" Fleur asked drowsily.

Harry debated letting her go back to sleep. Another biting current of air stole that last bit of kindness from him. He coaxed his protesting body to her bedside. She trembled upright.

"We can question Valentina tomorrow," he offered, adjusting a pelt that had begun to slip over the side of her bed. Harry tried to push the whole veela magic issue out of his head. It wasn't relevant. "But you and I have got to get some ideas on the table."

Harry gave her a rundown of his fruitless review of their cell before offering up a feeble solution, an enchantment-breaking technique he'd learned the theory of in Flitwick's class.

"Disruption is the best thing to come to mind, but—"

"We 'ave no wands," she finished, leaning back on her palms. She turned her head to look at Valentina.

"I don't suppose we could make one out of the bookcase and one of your hairs?" He was only half-joking.

Fleur snorted, rolling her eyes. "Any other solutions come to mind?"

He took that as a _no_.

"...My godfather escaped Azkaban in his animagus form," he admitted slowly. "There's no way this place is more secure than Azkaban. I'm thinking the same loophole applies here too."

Blue eyes sharpened on him. "Sirius Black?"

Harry nodded. Irrationally, he felt a shade of guilt. Sirius wouldn't care.

Silence stretched. "I see," she said at last. "I do not 'ave an animagus form. Do you?"

"Half-way. I started practicing after my third year. I know what I am, but I haven't fully transformed yet—that's the dangerous part. Sirius didn't want me doing it without him."

"What is your form?"

He laughed bitterly. "A mongoose."

"You don't seem pleased," she said.

Harry gave a one-shoulder shrug. "A snake-killer. It's poetic, I guess. I'm just tired of being paired against Voldemort—" she flinched "—I mean, our wands are brothers, I've got a curse scar from him, my blood runs through his veins now—I almost hoped I'd be a penguin or a cat, you know?"

Fleur's lips parted to comment but he couldn't stop speaking.

"Make no mistake, I want the bastard dead. And I want to be the one to do it. But my entire life has been defined by him and what he's done to me. Even this situation," Harry gestured around him, "I wouldn't even be—be _valuable_ if I wasn't the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. I feel like I survived just to suffer," Harry paused, tips of his ears reddening. But it was relieving to just say it. "You too—if I wasn't—you wouldn't—"

"I could not do it," she whispered. "I could not take it, having You-Know-Who's attention like zat. You are strong, 'Arry."

Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "We're getting off-topic."

"I am glad I was taken with you," she said.

He froze. Fleur continued, "This is more than one person can handle. Together, we can do this, no?" The unadulterated expression in her voice made warm bands tighten around his chest. A monumental weight unshackled from him and the backs of his eyes burned.

Digging his nails into his arm to keep from blubbering, he said, "Selwyn's unfortunate that he kidnapped two Triwizard champions. We're not going to go easy on him, are we?"

The stress of keeping an iron-control for the last two years ruled his life. He could split his existence in two parts: before Ginny Weasley's death, and after. Every waking moment had to be monitored lest someone get the idea he was a budding Dark wizard or Merlin forbid, Lord Voldemort himself. And then with Cedric's death… Harry had been spirited away to the Dursleys before any major fallout could land on him; before someone decided to connect Ginny and Cedric, both dead by implausible means, with Harry Potter as the sole witness.

Even if Fleur had her own agenda for saying what she did, for doing what she had done back in Knockturn Alley, he was so pathetic, so hungry for _someone to be on his side_ , that he was willing to take it.

Skin beneath his nails began to sting.

"Of course not," Fleur said, lip curling. She heaved off the pelts and lurched to the cell bars. Fingers tightened white around them. "I do not think we have the time for clever gambles." A small pause. "I cannot transform like full-blooded veela but I am not so 'elpless either. Perhaps this is a time for brute force."

He wondered what she meant by that—surely she didn't mean to pry the bars open with her bare hands? Even vampires weren't that strong. His doubts silenced when her eyes narrowed to slits and heat, wonderful, terrific heat, radiated off her, expelling the bone-deep shiver inside him and continuing until the cold seemed a far-away memory.

Metal groaned in her fists, iron raging white-orange, melting, a pooling hot liquid drip at her olive suede ankle boots. Sweat glistened down the elegant curve of her neck.

Harry knit his fingers together and pressed his lips to it, a flutter in his belly. If she kept at it, in half an hour they might have a hole large enough to tumble through. But that train of thought died at sight of seared palms, gooey skin, burnt blood.

His voice was pitched high. "Fleur—!"

She pulled back but not because of anything he said. Where the bars melted was a slight opening, yet in a slow, crawling motion they flawlessly restitched themselves. Fleur screamed in frustration. Lambent flames engulfed ruined fists—she hopped a step back and hurtled a fireball at the barrier, then again, and again and again and the entire grate of bars glowed. She kicked at the hot weakened metal and didn't stop until it returned to its original gunmetal-grey.

Fleur spit through the bars.

"Zis is unacceptable!" she shouted, delivering another kick to the bars. "'Ow dare zey do zis to us? Cowards, all of 'zem! Face me in a duel instead of creeping in shadows!"

Awe and fear lodged in his throat. "We'll find another way." She hadn't unleashed this power during the Tournament. She'd done nothing with fire at all—in the Second Task she nearly died fighting grindylows, water creatures with a mortal weakness for fire. Why didn't she?

"Maybe _t'as pas de couilles? Va te faire foutre! Connard_."

No one could hear them behind the charms. "Come on. It's not worth it."

When flames began to lick up her forearms again, he realized there was a serious problem. The skin beneath her eyes shimmered like a thousand little pearls and a two-toned snarl tore from her throat.

"Fleur, please!"

White fire slammed forth. Nauseating burnt muscle stench permeated the chamber.

The robes he'd given Valentina were on the floor. The girl was peering at Fleur with her trademark unreadable expression, except now her hands trembled, just as they did when she accidentally magicked the table at Altheia Selwyn. If she did that again, she'd kill Fleur.

Or Fleur would kill her.

"Good to see you, Val," Harry said, overly loud; Fleur was attached to the girl, wanted the best for her, so he hoped that Fleur remembering Valentina's presence would override her anger.

"What is wrong with her?" Coming from Valentina's deadened face, the teary, petulant voice was unsettling. But as if by magic, Fleur drew back at the sound of it, fire declining to a languid vanishment. Fleur's features were unnaturally still, a marble mask, but her eyes projected abject fear. Naked terror. In an isolated motion, she mechanically furled her hands into the damask-patterned sleeves of her robes, secreting them away.

Heavy silence blanketed the room.

"I thought I could do it." Fleur's tone ended any further discussion. She glanced at Valentina, then peered up at him from beneath the fan of her lashes. "Waiting for tomorrow is pointless," she said, near silent. "We should question her now."

He stuffed his fists into his denim pockets, turning to the girl. Valentina clutched her silver plate like it was some precious object. Where he once felt eager to interrogate the girl there was now a bereft wasteland that stretched from one end of his being to the other. Harry didn't even want to have the conversation now, but he was too well-trained to put feelings over rational necessity.

"How are the robes? Any good?" he asked with a grin.

She blushed and scrambled to pick the apparel from the ground, pulling it back around her shoulders.

How did one start a conversation like this? "If you would, please, I need you to tell me how you got here. Everything you know."

"I—I was… stolen from mamma," her high soprano lilted in a heavy Italian accent. "We shopped in Il Centro Fiore and Signora arrived to steal me away."

"Apparition?"

Valentina seemed confused for a moment before shaking her head. "Signora had a… anello."

Harry looked to Fleur, who was watching their interaction with an expression of light distaste "Ring?" he asked her.

Fleur nodded.

"Right. So, a portkey?"

"I suspect so," Fleur said, shaking her head. She crossed her arms—a gesture that couldn't be comfortable, but she betrayed no sense of pain—and asked of Valentina: "Did zey blind you? What did you see, chéri?"

Valentina cast her gaze downward. It wasn't a 'yes' or a 'no'. Harry prepared to reword the questions, but Fleur had apparently seen something definitive in her reaction.

"Trees? _Alberi?_ "

The girl shook her head negatively.

"You said Signora," Harry said. "Did you mean Selwyn's wife? The tall woman?"

Valentina said, "Yes. Her."

Things were beginning to click in the murk of his thoughts. As though they were two halves of a larger mind, Fleur caught onto his line of thinking and articulated it.

"Why did she portkey instead of apparate like her brother and husband? A month ago, she could only 'ave been carrying for four or five months, safe enough for apparition." The furrow between her brows smoothed. "It is a clue to our location. We are somewhere too far for apparition from Italy, but close enough to do it from Britain. 'Arry, from how terrible our own apparition was, it must have been already international."

A few of the leaps in her logic were a little lengthy for Harry to be comfortable blindly trusting in. "Mrs. Selwyn could simply dislike apparating. Plenty of people never learn for one reason or another."

"I know that type of woman," Fleur said dryly. "Fear would simply strengthen her resolve to do that thing. Especially if her husband can do it. If Isidore Selwyn can apparate internationally so can she; she is skilled enough with magic, she has the capability for it. She portkeyed because it was ze only way. Because of _distance_." Her eyes hardened, features clouding. "A possibility is Iceland."

Harry, who had very little experience with apparition, was confused, but kept stoic. "Why do you say that?"

"We were in the Rind for thirty seconds. We are nowhere near Britain," she said.

"The Rind?"

"Ze place between places?" Fleur cocked her head. "You do not know it?"

"I've heard of it." Harry let his response linger before steering the subject. "You really think we're in Iceland? They've had loads of dark wizards try to take power recently—Selwyn would have a hard time trying something like this there."

Fleur huffed. "It does not matter where we are. Just zat we are too far for 'elp to find us."

He recalled what Fleur had said before, a small eternity ago. "Won't your family try to find you?"

"My maman instructed me not to write so much." She laughed a little. "She will be 'appy I am living life instead of slaving away in front of paper, as she says. Aliénor and Vivien? I will be shocked if zey notice my absence. What of your relatives?"

Harry scarcely wanted to think of how upset the Dursleys must be. Hopefully, they hadn't burned his things to a crisp—he had worked rather hard on his summer homework, and his invisibility cloak was quite a useful item. "If they ever met Selwyn, they'd probably start worshipping him for having caused me so much trouble."

Her mouth set in grim disdain.

"Family is family," he said wryly.

Fleur struggled to speak. "If they… the Dursleys... were in trouble, and they asked for your help, would you help them?"

He didn't really have to think about it. "If it was something I could do easily, yes—"

"But if it was not?"

"...No," he decided to say. "They've hated everything about me since I was dropped on their doorstep. If they wanted my help, they should've treated me better. I don't owe them anything."

"What if they did treat you well?"

Harry laughed a bit. "Then I'd be the first one on my hands and knees asking what I could do for them. I imagine you'd know, right? You've actually got a decent family."

She stuck her tongue out at him, a very non-Fleur move. "It would be so, if my mozzer stopped trying to feed us her terrible cooking." Her face sobered. "You know, her food is not so bad. I would like to eat it again."

"How are we going to leave?" Harry asked to the ceiling. "Aside from finding our way out of the cell, there's a bit of walk before getting here. Probably means the area's covered in anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes. Not to mention it's not just us, but… there's twelve other cells, so assume another thirty-six people. If we're in a remote area there won't be any form of government we can easily contact. You can't apparate all of us—and I can't apparate." Admitting the last part was like pulling a tooth. Fourteen-year-olds weren't even legally allowed to apparate, but Harry wanted Fleur to see him as an equal and not a lowly child.

Fleur huffed. "When we find a way out of our cell, there will be no one to chase us. We can somersault out of 'ere once I have finished with them," she said darkly.

"But after?" he pressed.

She answered without a second thought. "The portkey. It can transport everybody. With a wand, I can reverse ze spell and have it transport us to the last place it was activated from. But we have to remove it from _Signora_ first."

Harry couldn't quite recall what Mrs. Selwyn looked like. Golden, tall, dressed expensively. But there had been too many specifics to remember. Had she been wearing a ring?

Fleur held up her left hand, conscious to keep her palm facing herself, and tapped at her ring finger. "Anello di diamanti?"

Valentina, who had been scratching the floor, nodded at that. "Yes."

 **-xXx-**

 **A/N:** Hope you guys enjoyed it! Because I've been getting questions, 'gramarie' _was_ made up by me. It's a middle english word meaning occult learning/magic, which I've repurposed. If its function seems a bit confusing now, don't worry, it'll get cleared up later.

On a tangent, I'm adding in Daphne Greengrass to the story in the future, but I'm stuck at what personality I want to give her. Obligatory ice queen? Messy drama bitch? Emo? What do you guys think?


	3. Arisen II

**A/N:** I went back and removed the Disruption bit. It was superfluous and not relevant. Also made the animagus explanation a bit more clear.

Thanks to theimmortalhp, Seyllian, and Halt for their input/betwork.

 **Warning:** darkish themes-ish

-xXx-

 **Chapter 3: Arisen II**

Attempting the animagus transformation had felt… _perilous_ , but coaxing his soul to open for a moment was a simple matter. Harry traced a finger down a frosty metal bar, faintly able to sense the tranquil wreathing of spells beneath his touch. The area Fleur had blasted seemed no weaker than the rest.

Unfortunately, his relatively newborn ability couldn't discern much else.

"You are wasting your time," Fleur said, fork gleaming as she absentmindedly drew the trident tip across the lush curve of her bottom lip. On the cot, ankles crossed in the air, her lounging position pinned the hem of her robes midway under her silken thighs, uncovering long, loping legs. Perfectly sculpted calves. Purple firelight suffused upon flawless skin, translating the blue of her eyes to a startling shade of violet, and hair like the currents of mercury running below First Emperor Qin's ancient and deadly mausoleum.

She speared a cut of meat from the plate in front of her.

He turned fully towards Fleur, the tips of his ears reddening. "What do you suggest doing, then? Seducing one of them into letting us go?"

"Why not?" she said. "You 'ave a certain charm about you. It would not be that difficult."

"You could do a better job of it, I imagine."

Fleur propped her chin on her fist, eyeing him with a feline laziness. "You enjoy stating ze obvious. However, Selwyn is too strong of mind. His wife hates me. And poor Marcus cannot even meet my gaze." Her gaze lowered, head tilting in mocking contemplation. "I did not fail to observe how taken Selwyn was with you. You could use that. For _our_ sake," she purred.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning his back against the bars. "You're not being serious."

"Why would I joke? This is a serious matter," Fleur said.

"Really."

She dropped her arm, teeth clenched. "Never ask me to do anything you would not do yourself."

"Who cares? Just spray around some veela hormones and—"

Fleur choked. " _Excuse me?_ " In one smooth movement, she was off the bed and onto her feet, prowling towards him. She jabbed a finger in his face. "You! You know nothing of veela! I have had to sit here, for hours, listening to you _pretend_ to know what you are doing! You are—"

"At least I'm trying!" Harry shot back. "You just sit there, cursing down every idea I have while not offering up anything in return. If you've got some master plan cooking in that head of yours, I'd like to hear it!"

Fleur looked at him as though he were a maggot. Rather coldly, she said, "You are smart for your age, but I am far more knowledgeable. Let a proper witch 'andle this."

Harry opened his mouth before audibly shutting it. All emotion left him.

"You're right. I apologize."

"Tch. How old are you? Fourteen? What can you possibly think of that I cannot?"

A momentary pause. "I'm going to complete my animagus form," he said.

She crossed her arms, dragging the silence longer. Her words were daggers. "If you cannot accomplish it, then I will finish what I started and melt through these bars."

' _She wants to protect you,'_

It came as an inexplicable feeling, familiar and warm, parting remarks as his soul tautened back to its normal state. As it did, looming shadows beared down thicker, more pressing. Harry pushed the sentiment to the side.

He snatched one of her hands, the palm shiny and dark brown. "You'll do this again?" She jerked her hand back, but it'd been too late. He'd already seen. To his shock, the web of veins extending from Fleur's wrist and into her sleeve, were burnt too. The fire had destroyed her from within. Pressingly, he also realized she had healed far too quickly for the single day that had passed.

"Of course I will!"

Fleur was right, he knew little of veela, but he wasn't so lacking on the general subject of magical beings. Wrongly, he had assumed Fleur's extensive slumbering was to rest off Altheia's hex.

"Regenerative sleep," Harry said. "That's what you've been doing."

She rolled her eyes. "You have figured me out."

Certain species had the ability to enter a prone state to accelerate healing time. For others, it went further—the legendary strength of vampires came from the years they spent sleeping in their caskets, building strength to use in a sudden burst. In werewolves, the human form was considered the prone state, which their curse used to multiply its fatal power within until released on the full moon.

If veela could perform a similar act…

Her strategy was unacceptable.

"Why didn't you let me know?"

"How does it concern you? How can you help me?" Fleur asked. "However, I suppose I must tell you every single detail, non? Otherwise you might ruin everything in your haste to do my job better than me."

That could have only been one thing. "Valentina."

"Yes!" she said. "I told you not to bother her, did I not? I told you she was not well, yet what did I notice you doing? Bothering her!"

"She was perfectly fine," Harry hissed. "And why do you get to decide all of this? You've had more schooling than me, but I'll bet I've had more practical experience. I did win the Triwizard Championship."

"Zat contest, the one tampered with by your own teacher, ze Death Eater?" Fleur laughed. "Ha! You did not experience the same trials we true champions did. _Merde_. Did you even see a kappa in those waters? We each fought off a hoard—only to watch you swim by, uncontested. Did zat maze try to swallow you whole? I get to decide this because I am better." Fleur breathed through her teeth. "How many books have you read on violent accidental magic? Sufferers are force-fed calming draught and locked in isolation for weeks! You could have done her irreparable harm."

"Yet, we did question her, and you told me to do it," Harry said, taking a step forward, hot anger taking root once again. Noses nearly touching, Fleur pushed him back a short length. Cell bars pressed uncomfortably into his back.

"If I had not, you would have tried again when I was asleep. With my supervision, I could see ze signs of another incident."

This wasn't going anywhere. They could continue blaming each other in circles for eternity. Harry took a deep, calming breath.

"Will you help me finish my animagus transformation?" he asked softly.

Putting her hand on her hip, Fleur appraised him. Their bodies were still quite close. His anger softened. "Very well. I would have assisted without your offering. You said earlier your godfather would not let you transform without him because of ze danger? He is right. But you are lucky. I am capable enough."

Harry grinned with nothing but teeth. "No time like the present, then?"

Fleur made her way to the table and sat at the edge of it. "I was more interested in human transfiguration than becoming an animagus," she said. "But I am aware of all the theory. I have friends who have completed it. What animagus method did you use?"

"Exercitus."

"Not Burke?"

Harry didn't quite feel like explaining it to her. "No."

"How is your gramarie?"

He licked at his lips, which he realized were dry. "Great. I've been practicing it for two years."

"You cannot consider yourself 'great' after only two years. That skill requires a lifetime to perfect."

"Let me rephrase. It's not my gramarie that's stopping me."

"What then?"

"The ghost's soul doesn't want to merge," he said. "That's all I can figure out. And I can't explain why."

She drew her brows. "And it wanted to merge with you? Came to you on its own?"

"Yeah."

"Then it must be a problem with your gramarie."

"But it's not," Harry insisted. "My soul can open to the point where I can feel magic like a sixth sense. I can sense _people_ like a sixth sense—what they're feeling, if they're lying to me—"

Fleur snorted. "Impossible. People with twenty let alone two years of practice do not gain such a level of competence."

"For my sake, pretend I'm not fibbing," he said. "Then what?"

She looked at him. It was a long, searching look, and their depths broadcasted resolute suspicion. "Then something is very, very wrong."

-xXx-

It was called _legilimency_ , Fleur had said. She forbade him from practicing gramarie until she could diagnose what was wrong with him, which she would do via a mind reading art. Harry had read mentions of it in books from the restricted section, but just like gramarie, legilimency and its sister art, occlumency, required years of training, and he hadn't had enough time for it all.

He'd asked her, of course, how delving into his mind would let her know what mischief was happening in his soul. Giving her access to his thoughts was nothing he wanted, if he could help it. But she had made a compelling argument. The Law of Interconnectivity, of Mind—Body—Soul. If one was off, so too were the rest.

Harry turned the engraved chalice in his hand, watching as light glinted off its silver rim. Naturally his next inquiry had been a question of when they would start, fully expecting her to say "right now". It pissed him off, watching her go back into a regenerative sleep instead, tell him it would be "later". His proposal was shoddy, but he loathed that Fleur had already committed to burning herself to a crisp. If it came to that, he would stop her.

What was the point of having magic if he couldn't do anything useful without a wand?

Disgusted, Harry threw the cup to the side where it bounced with a high metallic clatter; it rolled, water splashing in its wake. It refused to refill positioned on its side.

"P-Please don't throw the tableware," said a high-strung voice. Harry saw Marcus there, peering through the bars. "They are antiques. My sister would be quite displeased to see—to see them battered."

"Your sister?" Harry asked. Whatever charms Selwyn had cast had been removed by Marcus, as Harry could now hear the dementor as well, groaning as if on its death bed.

Marcus nodded, eyes darting feverishly, the fat-pocket beneath his little round chin wobbling. His wiry, gold hair had been styled into an oddly feminine coiffe, and he wore dark purple robes with an infection of ruffles. He looked like an aubergine.

"How about we make a trade," Harry said mockingly, making no move to fetch the goblet. Marcus disgusted him. He was weak. A second Peter Pettigrew. "I won't damage your furniture if you unlock our cell. We'll both get what we want."

"I can't. You are meant for the Dark Lord."

"Does Voldemort even know you—"

Harry had never seen color drain from a man's face so fast. As if Harry had revealed himself to be a leper, Marcus swished the silence back into place. He then began jabbing the wand— _Selwyn's wand_ —around in a sharper manner.

Moments later, Harry's skin parched, and his faint need to piss vanished. It was an unusually robust use of the cleaning spell. Harry's eyes sharply followed Marcus's hand as he restored the previously taken down protections. Harry had pegged Selwyn a control-freak, but he'd given Marcus his wand for what? Boring, routine maintenance?

He cursed himself as Marcus bumbled to the cell next to theirs, the prison's circular shape limiting Harry's view. Dismissing the Death Eater so lightly had been a mistake if he had access to such a resource. Then again, the man was basically a lost cause—too aware of his own fragility, slavish to a fault. No cracks for Harry to exploit. Marcus running off to tattle could only make their situation worse. Harry had no desire to see Selwyn in his day-to-day.

Metal scraped against stone. Small feet softly padded over, crouching close to Harry, Valentina's breath fanning his forehead—a concentrated form of the clinical odor that permeated everything.

"What is it?" he asked.

Above dark, fathomless eyes, her heavy brows scrunched, a tight expression taking hold of her face. Tasting through different words, it looked like. Deciding on a few, she asked, "What are you doing?", proceeding to sit primly across from him.

Harry hadn't thought he had done too badly, questioning her earlier, but he had minimal experience interacting with children. Let alone kids, as Fleur put it, as damaged as Valentina. Though, even if healers recommended isolation for these _victims_ , Harry seriously doubted the dearth of social interaction pressed upon Valentina did any good. Hell, he'd go mad if quarantined for an entire month.

"Thinking," he said. "We're not going to be here long. Fleur and I will get you out."

"Out?" she asked. "How?"

Harry made a vague movement with his shoulders. "I'm an animagus. Sort of. Almost. That means I can… er… turn into an animal, or at least, I'll be able to once I finish the ritual."

"Animal?" Her eyes lit up.

"A mongoose," Harry said, a bit humored. "It's not very flashy, not like a dragon or polar bear or anything. It's like a small, slender cat."

She seemed to understand. "My papa is _animagus_ ," she said the word like she expected Harry to be proud of her for it. He offered her a kind smile—crinkles at the eyes and all. "He is una fenice."

"A phoenix?"

"The fire bird," she asserted, as properly as if she were McGonagall during a transfiguration lesson. "Papa is special. He said not to tell or people will want what he has."

Harry grinned darkly. "Phoenixes are quite interesting." Jealousy was a nice cover story. Likely, Vittorio Goretti didn't want it known he completed a banned variant of the animagus ritual. "The Headmaster of my school has one. Albus Dumbledore. Ever hear of him?"

"No." Crinkling her nose, Valentina glanced at him doubtfully. The expression was soon replaced with one of curiosity. "Is he animagus?"

He tilted his head. "Maybe. I never asked."

"My mama and papa had tutoring instead of school," she said. "Same with me. And Nikolaus and Cassia. And Kunchen."

"Who're they?" he asked.

Valentina pointed squarely towards the other cells. Plumbless shadows licked the walls and the firelight threw the features of the other prisoners into alien rendering. "That is Nikolaus," she said, gesturing to a gaunt boy slumped face-down over the side of his bed, blond hair falling around his head to sweep at the floor. "He is from Ukraine. His papa and my papa are friends. Then there is Cassia," she pointed to a girl in the same cell, a redhead perhaps even younger than Valentina, "She is halfblood and from Ireland. Her papa is also friends with my papa." Her finger swept to the other side of the dungeon, to a sleeping boy with light brown skin. "That's Kunchen—"

"Let me guess, his dad and your dad are friends?"

She grinned like she'd gotten one over him. "His mama and my papa are friends."

Harry tipped his head so it rested against the wall again. "They're all politicians, then?"

"Yes." Valentina stood up. "I will tell you about my friends, okay? Nikolaus is mean to me all the time, but he's mean to everybody so I don't hate him much. Once, he gave me flower he found for no reason, but I found out I was allergic to them and got sick but he never apologized. Cassia never speaks because she stutters. Her face turns red and Nikolaus always calls her bad names. Kunchen is really nice but he's too nice sometimes. Once, Nikolaus accidentally made Kunchen's tongue twelve meters long and Kunchen did not even get mad. Once, at the tutor's—"

After a while, Harry started to tune out her storytelling, not quite being able to muster up enough care to remember that Kunchen once ate a worm because his brother tricked him, or that Cassia's mother liked to shop with someone else's mother, and this and that, but Valentina didn't seem to notice. In fact, she seemed to relish having someone to talk at. As Harry made the appropriate 'hm's' and 'oh's' at the appropriate times, he noticed that her English seemed to get better with each minute. She was actually rather adept with English. Not having spoken to anyone for a month must've rusted some lingual gears.

"Mi scusi, signore," she said, her face abruptly very close to his. Harry nearly went cross-eyed. "Do you know what I said?"

"Er—Excuse me?" Harry tried.

"Excuse me, mister," she corrected. "I—"

Harry interrupted what was sure to be a verbal pop quiz of some sort. "By the way, thanks for earlier, Val."

"Per cosa? That means 'for what'."

"Well you didn't do it on purpose, but for tossing that table at Selwyn's wife. She would've probably kept hurting Fleur if you didn't stop her."

That was the difference between a child's magic and an adult's. Children had reactive, unstable magic that sought to protect more than it did anything else. At nearly fifteen, Harry doubted he could replicate her feat.

Exuberance left her. Valentina turned her head away, bangs shielding her face.

"What is it?" Harry asked as he shut his already half-opened soul. It had flowered by instinct, answering to the worry that he might have provoked Valentina.

The girl shuffled. "I did mean to," she said quietly, voice thick. "I got so upset. I hate Signora Selwyn. She took me from my home. I—I wished to hurt her."

Harry's words could've skated on thin ice. "You can do wandless magic?"

She nodded, and reached over to pluck the cup he had thrown earlier. "See?" The goblet levitated above her palm, rotating lazily on its axis. "I can… make things lift when I want them to."

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck raised. Very, very few people were so naturally gifted. One in a ten-thousand—one in a hundred-thousand. Perhaps even less.

"Come here," Harry said, ushering her closer to him. "Put your hand on the bars. Do you feel anything?"

She obeyed and frowned. "Cold?"

Nefarious rituals aimed at increasing magical power always involved the soul in some fashion. Oftentimes, freezing the soul in an open state. A side-effect of which was magical sensitivity. With Valentina's father proven to be rather unscrupulous himself, Harry had thought he might have done something to his own daughter. But Valentina's reaction said otherwise.

The girl was simply talented.

And she was currently looking at him for explanation. "I can feel the magic on them," Harry said. "It's not a special talent or anything, most people get to that point when they cast around enough magic to become in tune with it. Or if you're impatient like me, you can practice a… skill to help you do it."

Valentina seemed rather impressed with him. "Really?"

He nodded.

"Can you teach me?" At Harry's horrified look, she hurried, "If you teach me this, I can teach you how to lift things." Valentina shoved the goblet into his hand, ignoring his words of protest. "You said you feel magic."

Harry rested an arm over the other, cup dangling from his fingertips. Where was she going with this? "Right."

"Can you feel magic inside yourself?"

Gramarie didn't allow him to feel his own power. Only his soul and strong already cast magic. _Inside himself_ —that sounded much more blood magic. His fingers clutched around the goblet. Why hadn't he thought of that? Combining the two disciplines?

The problem with the soul was it wasn't particularly sensitive. It was both finite and infinite. A metaphor and a fact. Dealing with the mongoose had been so frustrating because it was akin to navigating a pitch-black cavern with only his hands. He couldn't see the situation nor communicate with the mongoose.

Blood magic, however, could be the fix. Magic lived in the soul. Blood carried its imprint.

"Let's see," Harry said, adrenaline starting its familiar race. "Do me a favor and close your eyes, Val."

Crudely using his teeth, he nicked a bit of skin from his wrist and spat it out, pain flaring there. At the spot, blood came to a fat bead and ran down his arm. Harry smeared his fingers in it.

He closed his eyes and opened his soul. No one could smell iron in such a small quantity of blood, yet the stench of it built in the air, omnipresent and alive. And there was something else, the hint of velvet evening. Eagerly, he put a finger in his mouth, and the warm taste exploded on his tongue, sparkling diamonds enveloping all his senses. Awareness left his mind.

Stone and iron were replaced with a blindingly bright labyrinth of arteries and veins, soul-light glittering and refracting from each blood cell. Warmth. Familiarity. His body happily welcomed him as one of its own. Soon enough, he found his soul, for the first time actually _seeing_ it. Harry couldn't describe it. It pulsed and shifted, went big and then small, but there was no doubt as to what it was.

The ghost-mongoose raved madly; Harry's own soul stuck to its limbs and low belly like ooze, dragging it back into its hearth. Harry was, for the first time, able to properly understand it. The creature wasn't upset. It was terrified.

There was a small blackened spot on his soul. A blemish. Unsettled, Harry focused on it. Fear, so much fear, and anger and desperation. Sick, malicious, cold. Greed. I come first. My enemies deserve death. Only I can live forever. The area surged, spider webs of corruption flashing in the beautiful white, dimming it. The mongoose screamed as it was pulled, as if on a leash, into his soul.

Harry shut down his soul and opened his eyes to reality. Sweat slicked his back, seeped through his shirt. His hands trembled, covered in blood. Arms were slick to the elbows in crimson. There was a cut, jagged and red-black, deep across his wrist.

Fingers unsteady, he tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his wrist. Spots of blood soaked through, but the makeshift tourniquet seemed to hold.

He'd dabbled in blood magic, but this had never happened to him before.

Valentina, he noticed, had her head turned away, hands over her eyes.

"How long has it been?" he asked, pep in his voice, as he washed off the blood with water from the goblet.

She sighed heavily. "A _long_ time."

From his perspective, the experience hadn't been more than a minute. "How much time, do you think?"

"Half an hour."

Once he quit looking like a midwife right after a birth, he said, "You can open your eyes now."

This whole time he'd thought he must have the worst soul on the planet if the ghost that had agreed to merge with him backed out as soon as the bonding started.

But now it was exceedingly clear.

Lord Voldemort had his mark on him. The lightning bolt scar, the shared blood. The two of them were bizarrely intertwined. Harry was sure he got glimpses of the man in his dreams. Mundane activities like chatting at the dinner table, lipless mouth speaking silent words, or if Harry was lucky, torturing, and all the Dark Lord's glee that accompanied it.

And the strange fury from the grocer's? Voldemort's. It made sense now. But what could he do about it? Dumbledore knew all about the ritual Voldemort had performed on Harry—surely the Headmaster realized the sinister effects it would bring? Why didn't the man warn him?

Valentina prodded his tourniquet. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly," he said, voice a rasp. "I—I felt my magic. You're a great teacher."

She beamed at him. "Thank you, Signor! Let's practice lifting now."

Harry returned the smile, albeit strained. "Actually, that took a lot out of me. Why don't we try some other time?" Her face fell. "Tomorrow?" he offered.

"No, I want to do it now," she said. Harry's face remained stoic—she compromised. "How about, you watch me lift things? You can learn from that."

"Fair enough."

Valentina ran up to fetch a rather large yellowed tome from the bookshelf. Returning, she dropped the book on the ground, dust billowing forth. Harry narrowed his eyes and waved off the particles. Valentina inelegantly tore pages from the book. Harry moved to catch her wrist but stopped, seeing the title: _On the Importance of Purity_. Not all books were equally sacrosanct.

"See this?" She carefully folded the page in half, running her nail along the edge. "We are making paper cranes. We can lift them! First you fold in half, like how I am doing, and then you unfold and then fold this way..."

If someone had asked what he'd be doing now about an hour ago, origami wouldn't be very high on the list. It was strangely calming, and his fingers slowly regained their deftness. Rough grain beneath his finger, he was about to fold the sheet when he caught the title.

 _The Spider's Dome: Green Glass Effect_

-xXx-

"You said you looked through all zese books on our first day." Fleur said as she sorted through the rest of the tomes on the bookshelf. Each new title seemed to set her sneer deeper. "Nothing was mentioned of… their running theme."

Harry peered at her over _On The Importance of Purity_. "What, divination? These books don't exactly advertise it very well."

Fleur hm'd. "See this one?" She held a thin book with python-skin covers up for view. "A fairytale of ze oracle Cassandra, second edition. It's incredibly rare."

"Gourmet meals appear on our plates twice a day," Harry said dryly. "That's what they feed us, their prisoners. Our blankets are made from real animal fur. Not to mention the Selwyns own a _dungeon_. Is it any surprise they're beyond wealthy and out of touch?"

She waved him off. "This one belongs in a museum." Taking care, she opened the book, eyes slowly devouring the prose word by word.

Harry returned to deciphering the middle english the entire thing his book was written in. Surely he'd missed bits, but the gist was clear enough. Once he finished, the next chapter title stating something about houseflies, he shut the tome and pushed it away.

Fleur perked at the noise. "Finished?"

In an attempt to build good-will between them, Harry had previously conveyed his theory about how his compact mirror and the Green Glass Effect were connected. She was skeptical, demanding he read fully into it before posing the idea to her. He regretted asking her at all, but if he wanted Fleur to share her thoughts with him, then he needed to as well. No more secrets.

Except his wrist. She didn't need to know about that. He hardly imagined she'd be happy to hear he had gone against her orders to stop using gramarie. In fairness, Fleur hadn't asked about his wound either.

Harry nodded, resting his clasped hands on his bent knee. "The Spider's Dome is a scrying charm. It turns any mirror in a specified area into a window its caster can spy from."

Fleur's eyes were back on her book, and she didn't look up. "So what do you think? The Selwyns are spying on us from your mirror?"

"Well, no, it's closed," Harry said. "But see, two-way mirrors have got a load of scrying spells on them. They conflict with the Dome. The book says that's why the glass turned green. It's a side-effect." The idea that the Selwyns were using the Dome seemed plausible—the book _did_ belong to the Selwyns after all."

Harry continued. "We can't break the Dome. It's about as strong as a fidelius charm. But the book says my mirror is like a weak spot. If we can get through, we can reach my friend Theodore Nott and get him to send a letter to Dumbledore."

She shut her book, slipping it back into the bookshelf. "I am more concerned about this Spider Dome. It is another obstacle for our escape. If they are watching our every move…"

"Weren't you the one saying we could somersault out of here?"

Fleur didn't look very impressed with him. "Oui, I said that. However, good strategists plan for ze worst case, not ze best."

Harry brought out the mirror.

"Give me that," Fleur said, holding her hands open. They were visibly more healed than the last Harry had seen them. "I can do it."

With gentle ease, he tossed over the compact. She caught it. In honesty, he had been preparing to unwrap the tourniquet and spill blood over the mirror, hoping something happened. Fleur would likely have more finesse about it.

The mirror's lid clicked open. She was doing nothing in particular he could see, but suddenly, a crack spread across the glass, color dissipating. He sighed in relief. Without a word, she threw it back at him—he snatched it one-handedly from the air.

"Thanks," he said. He put a finger to the glass. "Theodore Nott!"

Nothing happened. For a moment. Then appeared a stoic, feminine face, long gold curls sweeping down her shoulders. She eyed him blankly and then vanished.

"...We may be getting a visitor soon," Harry said to the silence, deadly calm.

Fleur sighed and got up. "Do you think zey will bring cherry pastries along with them? I long for one." She fell, face-up, on her cot. "I suggest you play dead as I am."

As the words left her mouth, there was a hint of light before _bang_ —Isidore Selwyn strode down the dungeon steps with the lavish of an emperor, a shiny green apple in hand. The air about him was an oddly pleased one. A cat that caught the canary.

Selwyn conjured a wooden chair in front of their cell and sat, pulling one leg to angle over the other. "Give it to me."

Harry obeyed, grimacing.

The man opened it and closed it a few times, click-click-click echoing in the dungeon. "Who gave this to you?"

"A friend."

"It's no wonder I missed it," Selwyn said, inspecting it. "This is quite impressive. The anti-detection charm is something else, like. Hm. It's also to turn my fingers blue, since I'm touching it and I'm not you. Whoever made this has a thing for privacy charms."

Selwyn dropped the mirror into his pocket, exchanging it for a small dagger. He slid it over the apple, easily cutting a sliver from it, and nicked it from the blade with his teeth. "Harry, I really don't know too much about you, do I? In fairness, the only thing you know about me is my name. It's not terribly fair to you."

"I don't want to know about you."

The man grinned. "Muggles have a term for what you're doing: reverse-psychology. See? Even a prejudiced bastard like me can learn a trick or two." Selwyn leaned in closer. "Since I'm terrifically bored, I'll indulge you. I was an only child. Everything I wanted, I was given. Nothing was denied to me. But even knowing this, I never asked for anything—no broomsticks, no singing teddy bears. I don't care much for material things, you see. But my upbringing is why I am the way I am."

Selwyn sliced off another bit of apple and fed himself. "The Sorting Hat put me in Ravenclaw. My parents hoped for Slytherin; I didn't care so much. But even with my aloof personality, I still wanted the usual—" Selwyn made a circling gesture with the dagger. "—friends, good grades, a girl to like me, things like that."

"Seems like it worked out for you," Harry said.

"Come seventh year, and I've been crowned Head Boy by the teachers. Flitwick has me twice a week for one-on-one dueling practice. Rabastan Lestrange, a scamp in the year below me, impregnates a fifth year girl and asks me to be his son's godfather. And there's a new young, beautiful Divination teacher this year. Mind you, I only took Divination so I could catch up on sleep without children bothering me about Gobstone competition times or wondering if I could buy their detentions from certain ornery professors. But there in that Divination class, I fell madly in love. Married her the next year."

"A nice happy ending."

"Indeed." Selwyn's gaze traveled to Fleur, who was pretending to be asleep, and dropped his voice to the merest whisper. "We're two of a kind, aren't we? You and me? A taste for older women. I was thinking, since you're about to die and all, that I'd do you a favor and freeze up that bird for you. It's not as good if they aren't fighting, but she'd probably kick your teeth in, no offense. It's the least I can do."

Harry didn't answer.

Selwyn chuckled. "No? I don't blame you. Girl's probably not a virgin anyway. They keep losing it younger and younger these days. Society tells men not to be revolted by it, but it's a natural reaction."

Harry knew his face was white as sheet. There was nothing he wanted more than for Selwyn return to where he'd come from. But the man kept talking as his attention moved from Fleur to the walls.

"There used to be mirrors in each cell so we could ensure our friends weren't misbehaving. But Aly didn't like having to look at your miserable faces all the time." He gestured the dagger down at the mess of sprawling leather and paper on the ground. "Enjoying those books? The wife's a bit of a hoarder. I gave you children the rubbish ones of her collection. Books keep the mind sharp."

Rising from his seat, the chair disappearing with a pop, Selwyn casually tossed the rectangular apple core over his shoulder, where it rolled until about the middle of the dungeon.

"I'm going to the Ministry now. Are you curious why?"

Selwyn was clearly waiting for answer. "No," Harry replied.

The man grinned, casual and easy. "I'm going off to formally request the unfreezing of the family vaults."

"I've been laboring under the impression you were an upstanding citizen," Harry said, forcing himself to be punchy. His voice instead came quiet and without inflection.

"Earlier, I said I was only child. But I do have a cousin called Leander. Except, he's a Death Eater locked in Azkaban. The Ministry's been getting a bit too big for their britches lately, negotiating with Gringotts to allow them access to the vaults of convicted Death Eaters so to have the funds to repair the damage the Dark Lord dealt upon our world. Shame the negotiations fell through."

Harry's blood went cold. "Mockridge. That was you."

Selwyn flashed his teeth. "Now, now. That poor man died naturally. A stroke in his sleep. Goes to show you shouldn't work so hard in your nineties."

Then he left.

-xXx-

Hurrying inside, Theodore Nott slammed the cherry-red phone booth door closed and leaned against it. Idle chatter, metal transportation boxes charging down the street, and the sound of shoes dimmed. Muggles roamed everywhere. He'd never seen so many in his life!

It was all Harry's fault, him and his uncontrollable hormones. One pretty girl, a half-creature who he barely knew and the whole plan gets thrown out the window. What was Theodore supposed to do? Keep the damn thing? Harry probably thought he burnt it like he promised, but no, after Harry had gotten taken, Theodore secreted it away. When the idiotic Gryffindor came back, Theodore would retrieve the diary, wave it front of his face, and _then_ burn it. Nothing was worth the trouble the diary had made for him already, but making Harry as miserable as he could would be close enough.

Still, it had been nearly two days since Harry went missing. The bastard was harder to kill than a cockroach, and he despised the Ministry, but Theodore wouldn't have Potter's blood on his hands.

After a few moments, Theodore's heavy panting slowed. Almost as if out-of-body, he picked up the shiny black contraption and dialed the string of numbers. Unsure of how to hold it, he tried a few different positions before settling on horizontal.

"This is the Ministry. How can we help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to visit my sister, Miranda Nott. She's forgotten her lunch at home and she has quite a few dietary restr—"

"Of course," the chipper voice said. There was a pause. Nott thought he heard an airy whirring sound. "And what was your name again?"

"Charles Nott."

The machine made a metallic gurgle before a slot opened, a white circular pin sliding forth. Theodore pulled it from the lip. It read: Visitor, and he stuck it on his chest, mindful of snagging the material of his robes.

If his mind wasn't so preoccupied, he would've been offended at the bland title they'd given him.

"Of course. Mr. Nott, please remain absolutely still while keeping your arms to your sides. Have a wonderful day!"

There was an ominous groan and a click.

Then, he fell, cursing Potter all the while.

When he opened his eyes, it was to a part of the Ministry he'd never seen before. It was beyond ugly, no sense of architecture to it. Just a large box.

"Your wand, Mr. Nott."

Theodore emitted an exasperated sigh before handing over a dark brown length of wood with a bend near the top. Charles Nott, his second cousin, was about his age but he never went to Hogwarts. His overbearing parents insisted on homeschooling him, just as they'd done with Miranda. Earlier, when Theodore fed his cousin a bit of his plan, the boy been so excited to be involved in something taboo that he handed his wand over right then and there.

Nothing much had been done much to change Theodore's appearance. Just some strawberry-blonde dye and a set of green-eye glamours he'd picked up at the shop near his home. He already resembled Charles more than he liked to admit.

The man weighing his wand took all of three seconds before handing it back with a flourish. "Unicorn hair and walnut. Rare combination."

"So they say," Theodore drawled, hoping the man didn't ask for him to perform a spell. He could barely force the wand to make a bit of light.

"Charles?" Miranda's excited voice carried down the hall. She wasn't a very good actress. No one was that happy to see a member of their own family. "You've finally come!"

Theodore handed her the bag. "Your lunch." When she gave the wandweigher a nervous glance, Theodore hardened his gaze, hoping she'd behave.

"Thank you so much, brother. Why, you must be hungry yourself. Shall we go to The Cafe?" They began walking.

"Oh? Where is that?" he asked.

"Seventh Floor," she said. "Just Law Enforcement. You should be lucky we're not going to Magical Experiments. They're playing with a kind of goo-bomb. The floor is covered in it!"

"That's very unfortunate for them."

Miranda's eyes lit up. "No, you see—"

Theodore was rather glad now that Miranda and Charles had never gone to Hogwarts. They would've never survived in Slytherin, not with this level of atrocious naivety. Didn't she understand that he didn't care at all?

Miranda chattered loudly in his ear as they found the Cafe. The DMLE was one of the grander levels of the Ministry, wrought in a consistent, baroque style. The one flaw was the amount of witches and wizards skittering around, dropping papers and getting hit in the head with lavender paper airplanes.

The sandwich he ordered tasted like sawdust in his mouth. Circe and her sons, how he hated people. And the Ministry. And regular, pedestrian food. Tomatoes were one of the most flavorful fruits out there. How had someone managed to make the slices in his dish taste like wet paper?

"My lunch break is over, Charles," Miranda said, daintily wiping her mouth with a napkin. "I'll be off."

"Good riddance," he muttered as she left.

Finding a moment where everyone seemed to be paying attention to something else, Theodore slipped into the Auror Department. The secretary's desk was right near the front, and the wizard manning it looked up from a stack of lavender papers. At Theodore's approach, the man removed his glasses.

"Hello. What can I do for you?"

Nott breathed out, the jitters of anticipation he'd been feeling in the phone booth nowhere to be found. Perhaps emotions could run dry.

Just then, a door behind the secretary opened, letting out a gust of laughter. A tall man still faced towards the office, his hand around the doorknob.

"Again, I appreciate the help, Dawlish," he said. "I'll see if I can't steal you a few Winter Gala tickets from Lucius."

A huff came from within the room. "Don't bother. With your donation, Robards might just go off and hold his own gala."

The man laughed again, and Theodore's stomach twisted, finally placing why he seemed so familiar. It was the same man that had kidnapped Potter in Knockturn Alley. Angling his face to mock-examine the secretary's stationary, he hoped to every god he could think of that the man didn't recognize him in turn.

Door closed, and the man turned, revealing his face, and Theodore's theory solidified. Purebloods, the right kind, at least, sort of mimicked each other in style. Same seamstresses, same beautifying potions. The man in Knockturn and this man had the exact same too-fluid way of movement indicative of Draught of the Mud Eel.

Potter was cursed and he had diseased Theodore with the same.

The secretary snapped his fingers in his face. "Son?"

That drew the man's attention. Eyes glanced down at Theodore's name tag.

"Good evening, Williams," Potter's kidnapper said to the secretary. He nodded his head at Theodore and walked up to him, just close enough to be too close for Theodore's comfort. "Charles Nott." He scrutinized his face. "I'm Isidore Selwyn. It's a pleasure to meet you, you look remarkably like your father."

"You know my father?"

Theodore's own father had been a Death Eater, nearly convicted, but Theodore's cousin, the father of Miranda and Charles, had chosen dealing antiques as his life path.

Selwyn, the man said his name was. Theodore recognized the surname as an old pureblood one, woven through history. A few Selwyns had even fought alongside the Dark Lord. However, he hadn't heard of an Isidore before.

"Sure. Magnus and I are old friends." Selwyn cocked his head a bit. "I am intrigued as to what you're doing alone in the Ministry. He is notoriously protective of his children."

Caught by fear, Theodore's ready-made excuse was a bit hard to pull out of his gullet. He gave Selwyn a hard smile, one Harry would've been proud of. "Just here for some information."

"Thinking of becoming an Auror?" Selwyn clapped his shoulder and barked out a laugh. "Now I get why you've sneaked out. The old man would never let you do anything so foolish." He addressed the secretary. "No offense meant, of course."

"Can't take offense at the truth, Selwyn."

"If only more people thought like you." Selwyn opened up his posture as though he were an angel bearing his wings. "Give your parents my regards, Char. But if you don't end up becoming an Auror, I'll be telling them about your little escapade. So you'd better make the grades and do it." A wink, then Selwyn brushed passed him.

Theodore adapted his iron-wrought plan at spellfire speed. Having the name of Potter's kidnapper had somehow made the situation worse. It was clear Selwyn was tangled within the Auror Department. Theodore knew donations went a long way in the Ministry. That was a fact. The Aurors would never take him seriously if he claimed their prized donor had Potter locked up somewhere or worse.

"My apologies," Theodore mumbled to the secretary, who quirked an unimpressed eyebrow. "Do you take anonymous tips?"

The wizard straightened in his chair and pulled a quill from his utensil rack. "We do."

Theodore swallowed. "About two days ago, I was in Knockturn Alley and saw two wizards fighting." The secretary nodded for him to continue. "It was between Harry Potter and another whom I could not make out well. Potter lost quickly and the man apparated away with him. It looked to me like a kidnapping."

For all that Theodore could say about the secretary who had snapped his fingers in his face, he was impressed the wizard's face hadn't so much as flickered at the mention of Potter.

"Do you remember anything about the man? Any distinguishing features?"

Theodore shook his head. "I barely saw him for a moment. He wore an invisibility cloak."

"I see," the man said, putting his quill down. "Oftentimes, the mind retains more than you may believe it to. Would you consent to a memory extraction?"

"No." Theodore said. "As I said before, I desire anonymity. I know that once you have the memory that my identity will be clear to anyone who looks at it."

"If you say so." A bored note entered his voice. "I'll see that this gets the attention it deserves."

The secretary didn't believe him. Fool. "I'm sure it will be obvious if Potter's been taken on not. My presence here is out of goodwill." Theodore glared at him. "This information is now your responsibility."

The man donned his glasses back on, reviewing the scant notes he had taken. He held them like a shield, a barrier between Theodore and him. "As I said, I'll see that this gets the attention it deserves."

Grabbing an eagle-feather quill, Theodore stabbed it through the middle of the papers, ink-stained tip perilously close to the man's face. "See that it does, four-eyes."

It was quite a while later when he realized his name tag never specified his name.

-xXx-

 **A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews, guys :) To everyone taking finals right now—kill em.


End file.
